When Will They Come for My Factor Gear?
WHEN WILL THEY COME FOR MY FACTOR GEAR?
By Glenn G. Thater, Author of ‘Harbinger of Doom’
I sit in my beloved library at 34,
Reading forbidden books behind locked door,
I guard here the tomes I’m not supposed to read,
A shelf full of Rush, and North whose views I must not heed,
The old Pat Buchanan’s, the Hannity’s, the Newts,
My dog-eared O’Reillys, and the Coulters so dear,
Should I turn down the light, should I read here in fear?
I know soon they’ll come for my Factor Gear,
Their revolution is here whether we like it or not,
It seems that they beat us without firing a shot.
Their insidious tactics took us unaware,
Shredding our once proud culture bare,
In a few short decades they’ve laid us to waste,
Their crimes too long for any reasonable space,
We called them the lefties, the liberals, the elites,
Now they’ve become the dreaded thought police,
Already they dictate how we may speak,
They steer what we read,
And tell us what to think,
They’ve rewritten our history and destroyed our heroes,
Replacing them with various lefty zeroes,
They still have a warm spot for old Uncle Joe,
Will they never learn our friends from our foes?
What year will it be when they crash through my door,
To fire my books and throw me to the floor?
When will it be that they’re finally here,
When will they come for my Factor Gear?
Long is the list of the evils they claim,
Longer still the list of our heroes whose names they’ve defamed,
Now they tell us that Columbus and Washington and old Hickory were devils,
Endless charges of intolerance and insensitivity do they level,
They tell us we’re stupid or loony or both,
Who else would ever cast a republican vote?
A culture of apology and confession,
Our begging forgiveness their daily obsession.
Their mantras - diversity and political correctness,
That’s the dogma of the fair-minded friendly leftists.
The day’s long since here that we can’t speak our minds,
They’ve rewritten the dictionary and laid it with mines
How long until Fox is thrown off the air?
Can’t I speak how I like, why isn’t that fair?
How old will I be when they break through my door,
To burn my books and toss me to the floor?
My seventies? My sixties? Could it happen that soon?
Could it happen in my forties, or tomorrow at noon?
They’ll take my worn volumes of Rush and old Pat Buchanan,
They’ll shred my Hannity’s, and my O’Reilly’s and my Coulter’s so dear,
Will they leave me a single piece of my Factor Gear?
